"What?" Oh! Oh, that's not what he meant! Esteban's head shakes before he can think better of it, still too woozy for this to be a good idea. It takes him a moment to breathe slowly, untangling himself from the blond so that he can lean against the train and collapse, blinking back the darkness behind his eyelids and squinting against what little sunlight makes it through the fog.
Not alone. Tidus had told Inigo the same thing, and Esteban had... had believed it. Still believes it. He isn't alone; and it's been a long, long time since he'd last had companions he can rely on, so they are precious to him. And that is precisely why he pushes for this so hard. If he can give back to them, even just a bit; if he can offer them something precious, even just a fraction of how much Esteban is thankful-- he just wants to give back to them what they've already given him, even unknowingly.
"I'm sorry for your loss," he tries to explain instead, shifting his head to the side to look back at his companion again. "I'm sorry that-- that I made you relive that." His words are slower, losing the peculiar slang-quickness that follows him when he is speaking too fast. He wants to add more, but the garden carriage is its own separate thing, and he won't hide his apology behind another, different one.
"I am sorry for your loss." It's a repetition, but Esteban means it, means it with every fiber of his being, because he might not have caught onto everything, he still needs to unscramble his thoughts away from Tidus', but he knows that feeling. He knows that feeling too much, too well, and he-- wishes it were different. Tidus doesn't deserve that. Neither of them deserve that.
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Not alone. Tidus had told Inigo the same thing, and Esteban had... had believed it. Still believes it. He isn't alone; and it's been a long, long time since he'd last had companions he can rely on, so they are precious to him. And that is precisely why he pushes for this so hard. If he can give back to them, even just a bit; if he can offer them something precious, even just a fraction of how much Esteban is thankful-- he just wants to give back to them what they've already given him, even unknowingly.
"I'm sorry for your loss," he tries to explain instead, shifting his head to the side to look back at his companion again. "I'm sorry that-- that I made you relive that." His words are slower, losing the peculiar slang-quickness that follows him when he is speaking too fast. He wants to add more, but the garden carriage is its own separate thing, and he won't hide his apology behind another, different one.
"I am sorry for your loss." It's a repetition, but Esteban means it, means it with every fiber of his being, because he might not have caught onto everything, he still needs to unscramble his thoughts away from Tidus', but he knows that feeling. He knows that feeling too much, too well, and he-- wishes it were different. Tidus doesn't deserve that. Neither of them deserve that.
But it doesn't change what's happened.